


Redemption

by captainsarmband



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-10-08 08:08:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10382277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainsarmband/pseuds/captainsarmband
Summary: Dan hasn’t seen Fernando Torres for years (he doesn’t know when he stopped counting weeks and months, but it was probably around the time Dan changed his number and didn’t think it made a difference to tell him), his hair is a little darker, the lines around his mouth a little deeper, but when he smiles and his eyes glisten, he hasn’t changed much at all.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this was written for [footballprompts's March prompt set](https://footballprompts.tumblr.com/post/158326892520/march-football-prompt-set-rules-fanworks-should), inspired by the trope prompt ("Celebratory Kiss"), the photo prompt, and the word prompt:
> 
> “Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.  
> These, our bodies, possessed by light.  
> Tell me we’ll never get used to it. “  
> -Richard Siken

 

 

He can almost smell the scent of the bright green grass down below, can almost feel the breeze blowing softly against his neck, carrying with it the chants from the Kop end that are building up to kick-off.

 

The sun is setting in the west, painting a golden stripe against the overpowering blues and purples of dusk. With the floodlights illuminating the stadium, he’s taken back to nights of glory, to the anticipation in the tunnels, the tingle in his spine when the first notes of the Champions League anthem sound.

 

But those nights, just like the teams warming up on the pitch, are a thousand years away, and instead of feeling his every fibre burn with passion, Dan's fingertips are cold against the glass of the VIP lounge’s window.

 

“You reckon they’d notice if we just pulled on a kit and went out there?”

 

The voice coming from right next to him makes Dan jump. He doesn’t need to turn his head to see who it is; he’d know that soft murmur laced with a lazy accent anywhere. He keeps his eyes fixed on the centre circle and tries to collect the thoughts in his mind, a task made infinitely harder by the way his heart pounds in his chest. “I’m not sure they still have shirts with our names on the back.”

 

The other man chuckles and Dan feels a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

 

“I’ve seen a few around actually.” From the corner of his eye, Dan sees his hands gesturing at the stadium. “This feels a lot like European nights, doesn’t it?”

 

“It’s only West Ham.”

 

“It’s never only anything.”

 

Dan can’t help but turn towards him then and is momentarily taken aback by how familiar he looks.

 

He hasn’t seen Fernando Torres for years (he doesn’t know when he stopped counting weeks and months, but it was probably around the time Dan changed his number and didn’t think it made a difference to tell him), his hair is a little darker, the lines around his mouth a little deeper, but when he smiles and his eyes glisten, he hasn’t changed much at all.

 

“It’s good to see you,” Dan says honestly and embraces him in a half-hug. His shoulders are more muscular than he remembers and his perfume is distinctly different (which is weird, somehow, since every time Dan passes a stranger with that old scent, he is still helplessly pulled back to a time when it meant comfort and home).

 

“You too,” Fernando replies close to his ear and brushes his hand over Dan’s back before he pulls away. “What brings you here?”

 

“Visiting friends. I figured I’d make sure this old place is still standing.”

 

Fernando laughs and looks out of the window as if to verify. “Yeah, me too,” he says, before focusing on Dan again. “How is home?”

 

It takes Dan a moment to understand that he isn’t referring to Liverpool.

 

“It’s nice,” he finally replies, “I hadn’t realized how much I missed it. What about you?”

 

Fernando’s gaze shifts, his easy smile wearing the same natural fondness as every time he told Dan about Madrid before (there used to be a sting to it, back then, that went right to Dan’s chest. A feeling close to jealousy over something he could never compete with, something he never had to offer. He waits for that tug at his heart now, but it never comes). “I’m happy.”

 

Dan nods slowly, searching Fernando’s face for a contradiction of his words, but doesn’t find any. He doesn’t know how he feels about that.

 

“So,” Fernando breaks the silence and tilts his head, “how is old age?”

 

Dan huffs. “I think the word you’re looking for is retirement.”

 

“Yeah,” Fernando stretches the word and frowns innocently, “but do I really?”

 

“Oh, shut up,” Dan slaps his arm playfully. “Not all of us can still call themselves Niño at 33.”

 

“Fair enough,” Fernando presses his lips together, looking almost goofy in an effort to reign his laughter in. And just as he snorts, lips breaking into that unabashed laugh of his, eyes crinkling in the corners, the last ray of golden sunlight breaks between the clouds, illuminating his face softly, highlighting the freckles sprinkled over his face, and Dan forgets how to breathe.

 

(It’s Sunday morning and Dan is counting the long lashes of Fernando’s closed eyes. The light only barely makes it through the shutters, but it’s enough paint a bright stripe over his face. “Are you watching me sleep?”, he asks.

“No.”

“Good.”

 

It’s an evening after training, some day in early summer, and Dan steps out of the training grounds only to find Fernando leaning against his car, face tilted toward the sun, letting the light seep into his skin.

“You ready?”

“Yeah, let’s go home.”

 

It’s the simplest moments of them all, sitting outside their favourite café down the road and Fernando looks up from his coffee and smiles and Dan has never been so in love.

 

It’s not.)

 

“Are you okay?” Fernando asks, soft concern in his voice.

 

“Yeah, just,” Dan shakes his head to ground himself, “should we go find our seats for the game?”

 

“Ah, about that. You might have left a legend, but I’m still the guy who left for Chelsea.” Fernando clears his throat. “Let’s just say games are mostly more enjoyable to watch from inside.”

 

Dan frowns, but doesn’t ask any further. He has said every word there is to say on Fernando’s departure, has felt every emotion he is capable of. Sometimes, there is just nothing more to add. “I’ll meet you later then.”

 

It’s not the most spectacular game, but he might have enjoyed the intensity of the match, the tackles between the boxes. His mind, however, keeps drifting elsewhere, almost feeling Fernando’s presence pressing onto him, contemplating how, after all the distance they have carefully established between them over the years (not all of it geographically), he is suddenly only a heartbeat away.

 

With the sun having disappeared from the horizon, the cold breeze creeps under Dan’s leather jacket and he’s almost grateful when the ref’s whistle ends the goalless first half. He shivers when the warmth of the VIP lounge embraces him and his eyes automatically search the room for the dark blonde figure (he’s almost surprised how quickly that old instinct sets back in, but not quite).

 

“Shit, you’re cold,” Fernando says when Dan slides into the booth beside him and their fingers brush. He doesn’t pull his hand away.

 

“Yeah, it’s gotten a little chilly.”

 

Before he can protest, Fernando cups his hand with his own and pulls it to his chest to warm between his palm and his sweater. “Better?”

 

“Not really,” Dan says, but Fernando only raises his eyebrows at him. “Okay, maybe a little.”

 

Fernando smiles and Dan smiles back and for a second he imagines he can feel Fernando’s heart beat a little faster, but maybe that’s just his own.

 

“What do you think about the game?” Dan finally asks and Fernando scrunches up his nose.

 

“There’s room for improvement, no?” He says diplomatically. “Tough game for a forward, he hardly gets any chances set up for him.”

 

“Well, our defense is kind of preoccupied with tackling for their lives.”

 

“But if they went forward to push the midfield and create something-”

 

“We’d probably be down by two already.”

 

Fernando pauses to look at him before he says, “You still say  _ we _ .”

 

Dan bites his lip and looks away. “Old habits die hard, I guess.”

 

(It’s only when the game is underway again that he realizes his fingers are intertwined with Fernando’s.)

 

He groans as yet another shot goes wide and lets his forehead drop to Fernando’s shoulder. “We are never winning this.”

 

“Yeah, we are. Just you wait.”

 

“You sure?”

 

“How eager are you to find out?”

 

Dan lifts his head in time to see Fernando run a hand through his hair. “What do you mean?”

 

Fernando’s gaze drops from his eyes to his mouth and Dan involuntarily licks his lips. “Want to get out of here?”

 

Dan swallows and searches Fernando’s face for an answer to his own question. He comes up blank. “Tell you what,” he finally says and looks out onto the pitch again, “we win this, we’re leaving together.”

 

“You said we’re never winning this.”

 

“You said we are.”

 

There’s an expression on Fernando’s face that Dan can’t read and it reminds him of a time when it was his favourite task to figure out the many faces of Fernando Torres.

 

A sharp whistle and an angry roar sounding through the stadium make them both wince. Dan sees Fernando’s eyes widen before he turns to look at the field. There’s a small crowd of players forming in Liverpool’s box.

 

Dan sees the protests, the gestures, the ref vehemently pulling a yellow card from his pocket, and he knows what it means.

 

“Penalty,” Fernando says quietly and his hand tightens around Dan’s.

 

Dan feels his heart sink with the disappointment of a hope he didn’t know he sheltered.

 

He closes his eyes, unwilling to watch the ball hit the net for more reasons than the Liverpool red still pumping through his veins.

 

“Fuck yes!” Fernando yells and jumps in his seat, his outbreak echoed a thousandfold among the ranks and Dan’s eyes fly open. “Did you see that save?”

 

It’s a rhetoric question and Dan just mirrors the bright, almost disbelieving smile on Fernando’s face. (And suddenly he remembers how easy it is to fall in love with him.)

 

They fall quiet after that, only occasionally exchanging comments on the match, communicating through a code of fleeting glances and fingertips on skin that they both still know by heart.

 

Dan squirms in his seat as the fourth official indicates three minutes of injury-time and Fernando places a reassuring hand on his thigh. “We’re winning this. I can feel it.”

 

Dan can’t quite tell which  _ we  _ he is talking about.

 

Liverpool are in possession as the ref lifts his arm to look at his watch and raises the whistle to his lips. Dan straightens up, clasping Fernando’s hand even tighter. He can’t make out who it is, but in a last desperate attempt, a player in red takes the shot from just outside his own half.

 

Time slows down while the ball makes its arc over the field and the fans rise from their seats in anticipation.

 

Fernando inhales sharply beside him and Dan could swear his heart stops beating.

 

The metallic clang rings in Dan’s ears as the ball hits the crossbar.

 

“Oh,” Fernando says after a moment, voice hardly more than a breath. He looks at Dan, face crestfallen, and seems as much at a loss as Dan. He can see it in Fernando’s eyes, the what if’s and the could be’s, the crumbling versions of a future he’s built up during the last half an hour. He feels them shattering inside himself, too.

 

And it’s not the worst pain he’s felt. It’s no betrayal, no broken promise, only a small scar that won’t even itch in a month’s time. And yet.

 

He kisses Fernando because there is no way he can stop himself, places a hand on his jaw to pull him closer, and Fernando kisses him back as if he’d been waiting for it (and maybe he had, but Dan doesn’t allow himself to think about that).

 

“I can’t believe he scored from the halfway line,” Dan whispers against Fernando’s lips and the way he looks at him then, the mixture of understanding and sadness and gratitude, makes Dan close his eyes again to lean back in.

 

Kissing Fernando feels as natural as breathing and Dan doesn’t know how he went without it for so long. How he missed the way his chest tightens with a racing heart, how his skin burns where Fernando’s fingertips run along his neckline.

 

(It’s after Fernando has finally,  _ finally _ , come home after their glorious triumph over Arsenal that leads them to the semi-final and Dan limps through the hall, testing the limits of his healing foot, to meet him at the front door.

“I thought you might have gone to celebrate with the others.”

“I just wanted to celebrate with you.”

It’s really hard to kiss when you can’t stop grinning.

 

It’s a stolen kiss in the showers, when the spray of the water washes over them and Fernando’s wet hair falls into his eyes. Drops of water glisten at his eyelashes and drop onto his cheeks as he blinks. And everything about him is so fucking beautiful that Dan has to kiss him again.

 

It’s the most daring one of them all, in the tunnel after everyone has entered the locker room. Dan shoves him against the wall and crashes their lips together.

“You were immense today.”

It smells of rain and sweat and the giddy feeling of winning.

“I fucking love you, Daniel Agger.”

 

It’s every kiss he can still taste on his tongue, every kiss he has forgotten until just now, when it all comes crashing down again. It’s an endless loop and what was and what is just happens at the same time, twirls and mingles and ceases to matter. Their mistakes haven’t happened yet and are already forgiven, their harboured memories lie just a second ahead. It’s redemption.

 

It’s not.

 

But.)

 

The first thing Dan notices in Fernando’s hotel room is the small suitcase on the ground, opened, but left unpacked. It’s only practical, his flight leaves early in the morning, so he said. And it doesn’t matter. Not when Fernando pulls Dan onto the bed on top of him, lips only leaving lips to roam over skin.

 

They undress each other slowly, taking time to marvel at the familiarity of their bodies, to discover new drawings of ink under well acquainted skin.

 

Fernando lets out a stuttering breath as Dan’s tongue traces his hipbone. His voice is deeper than Dan remembers when he moans his name.

 

Their bodies find their sync as if on instinct, matching rhythms and heartbeats. It’s almost as if they were 23 again (except that the silence of the hotel room is only interrupted by the slapping sound of skin on skin, by blissful sighs and eager moans, not by love declarations and whispered nothings, words that mean forever and promises they couldn’t keep).

 

Fernando comes with a whimper and Dan presses their mouths together to suck in the sound. Their foreheads touch and Dan squeezes his eyes closed so tight he can feel them burn. He licks a salty tear from his lip without knowing whose it is.

 

He feels Fernando’s knuckles grazing over his cheek while he breathes in the air Fernando exhales. And if the world ceased to exist on the outside of that very room, Dan would be fine with that.

 

“What does this mean?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“You’re leaving again.”

 

“So are you.”

 

“Things won’t change, will they?”

 

“We’ll have this.”

 

(And maybe, Dan thinks, once they have untangled themselves from each other and have fallen asleep between kisses, the sun will come up again and tickle his skin awake. Maybe when he turns around then, it’s Fernando’s face he sees, soft smile playing on his lips while he sleeps. Maybe their beginning doesn’t lie in the sharp focus of the floodlights, but in the subtle light of dawn. Maybe it’s that morning bearing their second chance.

  
  


It’s not.

  
  


It’s okay.)

 

 


End file.
